The Invitation

The broom is cold.

Despite the glitter of the glowing invitation,

I see no promise.

Deception is the rhythm of its song.

I see my open bedroom window beckoning.

The imaginary wind echoes hollow.

Despite the the heights of flight, the power to walk through a wall, the invisibility in a room.

I could not fathom insanity within its lie.

To be a "god."

A witch without a compass to bring me a home.